


Wild Hearts

by Mssmithlove



Series: Happiness Awaits [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dirty Talk, Equestrian, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Horseback Riding, John Talks Dirty, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Shameless Smut, Summer, Unilock, Virgin Sherlock, rugby!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-19 23:25:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3628176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mssmithlove/pseuds/Mssmithlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has never loved anything more than his horses. But that may change when a new boy takes a summer job at his family's ranch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nosetothewind94](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosetothewind94/gifts).



> I received this lovely request from nosetothewind94. Here is the original prompt:
> 
>  
> 
> _I'm not sure how familiar you are with equestrian stuff, but I’ve been dying for an equestrian teen/unilock fic for years now, where John’s hired a stable lad to help out at the Holmes manor, and he gets to ride on some old, beaten up pony freestyle while Sherlock has to do dressage and jumping all dressed up and slick and perfect on one of the show horses and he’s jealous as hell, because he hates it and he starts out hating John for it, but then I dunno, he gets thrown or stg and John would be all flirty while helping him and Sherlock a bit flustered and then they'd be friends and things would happen. Filthy things. In the hayloft. And around the house. I mean have you seen the trousers people ride in? Hnng..._
> 
>  
> 
> So this is the result of that. Please keep the requests coming! Enjoy!

Sherlock creeps along quietly in the morning fog, breathing in the smell of the morning dew and the calm of the just risen sun, birds singing softly in the distance.

This is by far his favorite part of the day.

The part of the day when he is awake far earlier than anyone in his household, usually having hardly slept, and slips out into the cool foggy morning.

And goes to see her.

He doesn't tell anyone else about his morning ritual. It's not that they wouldn't approve. More like they wouldn't understand. They don't know her like he does.

They don't love her like he does.

He trails his fingers along the stable wall, heart pounding a little harder as he rounds the corner.

He's been away from her for a year.

An entire year, he's been gone, starting his university career, studying for a major he very much doesn't want or need, spending every moment worrying about how she's doing, texting his head riding coach Mrs. Hudson incessantly for updates and photos and anything to tell him that yes, she's alright and yes, she's being taken care of.

He ducks into the stables and stops breathing when he sees her.

She's gorgeous. Truly, the most stunning thing he's ever laid eyes on, her satin chestnut hair carefully groomed and ratty mane she won't let anyone brush except him, and now Mrs. Hudson since he's been away, laying down her back.

Sherlock swears her eyes light up when she sees him.

"Hey there, pretty girl," he murmurs. "I missed you."

She snorts softly and brings her head over the stall door, ducking to reach her snout toward him.

Sherlock laughs and kisses her nose. "You still know how to woo me, don't you?" He lays his hands on either side of her head and strokes her soft hairs down her neck.

She shakes her head against his touch and he grins. He's missed her so much. The anxious knot loosens in his chest as he breathes her in.

She stomps her feet a few times and Sherlock feels that familiar curiosity crawl up over his spine like it always does.

It's the reason he has her.

She's too wild to ride. Always has been. She'd been traded around several times before Sherlock met her, no one sure what to do with her. She's too reckless to race, to manic to show.

And it was sort of why Sherlock loved her.

Sherlock is a good boy. Sherlock follows schedules and rules. Sherlock takes everything he does very seriously. He doesn't divert from his path and he doesn't break rules.

She is none of those things. She follows no rules or schedules. She answers to no one. She takes nothing seriously. Sherlock can see that in her eyes.

He has his own show horse, Balthazar, a nice, calm stallion, perfect for shows and trotting and jumping, and Sherlock adores him.

But there is something about this one that he just can't let go of. Something he felt the minute he laid eyes on her. Something his father was kind enough not to question but instead silently agreeing to bring her home anyway, as a surprise on Christmas day so many years ago.

Sherlock has been forbidden to ride her. That was the agreement. He can't ride her and she can stay. She's thrown several riders off, in violent ways, cracking and shattering bones like glass.

His father, always the protector, made Sherlock make this promise.

His father loves promises.

Sherlock was a notoriously indecisive child. His hobbies lasted days at best, and nothing ever stuck.

When he asked for a pony at age eight, his father was quick to say no.

"Ponies are a big responsibility, Sherlock," his father warned after months of Sherlock begging.

"I know," he'd agreed, although he hadn't known.

"You can't get bored and stop taking care of them."

"I won't, I promise!  _Please_ , daddy!"

" _If_  I agree to this," his father had warned, "you must do something with your pony. You must learn to ride, learn to train them. You must dedicate time to them. If you don't, I will not hesitate to sell your pony."

"Okay," Sherlock had replied excitedly.

"Promise, Sherlock," his father had said.

"I promise."

Two horses and a state of the art stable later, Sherlock had kept his promise.

His father wasn't one to make idle threats.

Which was also why he kept his promise not to ride  _her_.

Because he can't live without her.

He feels a bit guilty now as he watched her shuffle her hooves. She's restless being cooped up in her stall all the time.

She does have free time, Sherlock knows, where the ranch hands let her run out in the open field. But she's a pain to wrangle and Sherlock did wonder if that hindered the team from spending time with her.

It was the kind of question that kept Sherlock up at night when he was at school.

Sherlock isn't allowed to let her out on his own. He isn't allowed to go in her stall without supervision. Another promise. Another rule he abides by.

It's obvious she needs more. She wants to run and jump and move and Sherlock's guilt only builds. He doesn't know what to do for her. He can't let her go though. She would be miserable anywhere else. At least here, she has him to look after her.

Sherlock wonders more often then he should what it would be like to ride her. To saddle her up, take her out into the clearing and let her run. Feel the thrill of this magnificent creature's hooves pounding beneath him, free of restraints.

Of course, he'd ridden his show horse Balthazar out on the property plenty of times. It's always nice. It clears his head. It's refreshing.

It's not dangerous.

Balthazar is tamed. Balthazar is trained to follow rules. Balthazar isn't unpredictable.

All the things Sherlock had been all his life.

But she wouldn't be any of those things.

And as much as he suppressed it, Sherlock knew he craved chaos.

Craved danger.

Craved…freedom.

"She's a beauty," a voice comes from behind him and Sherlock startles out of his thoughts, whirling around. No one is ever here this early.

A young, short, somewhat burly boy - probably a ranch hand - is smiling softly at him and nodding toward the horse behind the door.

"Yes," Sherlock replies, although he doesn't know why. He doesn't speak to the workers who come around for summers. They aren't here to socialize with the Holmes family; they're here to work.

Sherlock doesn't fraternize with people who aren't going to last.

Although none of those people have ever looked quite as good as this blond boy with nice blue eyes.

"What's her name?" The boy takes a step closer, setting down the bail of hay he has in his hands, revealing a white t-shirt and washed out jeans.

Definitely a ranch hand.

And a bit of a messy one at that. His clothing is tattered and old.

And there's a bit of a spark in his eye.

Untamed, this boy. Undisciplined.

Reckless.

Sherlock doesn't do reckless.

He hates that he's drawn to him.

The same way he's drawn to her.

"Dolly," Sherlock says quietly, because he's still standing rather close to his beloved horse and because he's slightly nervous.

"Hm," the boy nods. "Pretty name for a pretty horse."

Sherlock doesn't respond, absently petting Dolly's nose. He's definitely not going to reveal to this boy that he didn't choose Dolly's name because of her beauty, but because Dolly Parton's 'Hard Candy Christmas' was playing on the radio when his father had brought her home.

That felt like a lifetime ago.

"She seems agitated," the boy says, looking Dolly up and down. "Is she a racer?"

Sherlock actually scoffs.

Of course this boy is an idiot.

Should have spotted it in the first place. He deals with enough idiots at university.

"No, she's not a  _racer_ ," Sherlock replies condescendingly. "She's a…" He pats Dolly's nose, feeling a stab of sadness. "Well. It doesn't matter."

"Why don't you take her out?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I'm not allowed to."

"And you always do what you're told?"

Okay, now this boy is just being nosy.

Sherlock shoots him an irritated look. "I don't think that information pertains to you doing your job properly."

To Sherlock's shock, the boy actually laughs. "Ah," he says, chuckling. " _You_  must be Sherlock."

Sherlock frowns. "How-" Then he rolls his eyes. "Was it Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson who told you about me?"

"More like warned," the boy is still laughing. "But I'll never tell you which one it was." He winks.

Sherlock isn't entirely sure how to react to that. He defaults to rudeness when he doesn't understand something. "Well, if that's all-"

"I'm John, by the way," the boy says. "John Watson."

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment. "Okay," is his reply and the boy laughs again.

"Jesus, you're a tough one, aren't you? The cute ones are always the toughest."

Sherlock ignores the thrill that runs through him and glares. "Flattery will get you nowhere on the Holmes property."

"Oh trust me, I know," John agrees. "I tried shagging Mrs. Hudson for this job but she was having none of it. Mr. Lestrade had to come to my rescue."

Sherlock furrows his brow. "What? Why would you ever-" He freezes as John's face turns red with mirth. "Oh. You're joking."

John snorts as he laughs harder. "You're adorable," he says.

Sherlock refuses to feel the things he wants to feel at those words and decides it's time for him to get out of this conversation. "Don't forget to shovel the manure in Balthazar's stall." He glares with a smirk, triumphant at the low blow.

John just smiles back.

He fucking  _smiles_.

"Aye-aye, captain," John grins.

Sherlock scowls and turns on one heel, not even giving Dolly the usual kiss goodbye. No way he's doing  _that_  in front of this John character.

"I'll see you around, Sherlock," John calls.

Sherlock fights that familiar buzzing in his body. The same kind of buzzing he has every time he's around Dolly.

He won't be spending a minute with John Watson if he can help it. Too unpredictable.

Too dangerous.

Sherlock is proper. Sherlock is posh. Sherlock practically lives in his perfectly tailored breeches and shadbelly and white gloves and rider's boots, constantly preparing for his next competition. He's a gentleman through and through and he rides like one.

Sherlock is elegant and formal.

Sherlock concerns himself with technique and practice and  _perfection_.

And Sherlock doesn't  _do_  unpredictable.

Or dangerous.

 

* * *

 

"Sit up straight, Sherlock, where has your posture gone off to? Left it at uni, did you?"

"Shut up," Sherlock growls under his breath as he kicks Balthazar into gear, riding him across the course to the next jump.

"You really expect to win this summer doing  _that_?"

"Why did I hire this imbecile again?" Sherlock mutters to himself.

"He's never going to make that when you look the way you do."

"Yes he will," Sherlock says, and Balthazar trots toward the low wooden beam. "Come on," Sherlock mutters. "It's the lowest one. You can do it, come on now."

Balthazar pulls back at the last second and kicks out, knocking the wood to the ground. Then hops over it.

Sherlock bites back a growl. No reason to upset his horse when he knows this is his fault.

"Told you."

"Yes, thank you, Anderson," Sherlock bites back. "Your observation skills are truly astounding."

Anderson glares back at him and opens his mouth to retort when-

"Lookin' good, Sherlock!"

Both Anderson and Sherlock turn to find John grinning at him from just inside the stable doors.

"Young man, this is a closed practice!" Anderson shouts, stomping his foot in that childish way Sherlock hates.

John throws up his hands in mock defense. "My bad," he says far too innocently. "I was just cheering on the champion."

Anderson huffs an indignant sigh. "You don't  _cheer_  like that. It startles the horses."

John cocks his head. "Did I startle your horse, Sherlock?"

Sherlock tries not to snort and fails. John grins at him.

"Well, no," Anderson agrees, "but still. You don't whoop and yell. You applaud civilly." He eyes the ranch hand disdainfully. "Like in… tennis." Anderson grimaces like the word tastes foul in his mouth.

"Sorry," John says in feigned regret. "I'm a team sports kind of bloke."

"Tennis has doubles," Sherlock shrugs although he's about as irritated with Anderson as Anderson seems to be with John.

"Doubles huh?" John smirks and raises an eyebrow. "Now  _that_  is something I can get behind."

Sherlock's eyes widen slightly.

This menacing boy has got some balls.

John winks and takes off back toward the barn, obviously pleased with himself.

Sherlock blinks as he watches him go, truly having no idea how to react.

"Sherlock!" Anderson's irritating voice comes screeching back into his ears. "Back to work!"

"I think that's enough for today, actually," a calm, sweet voice comes from the other side of the pen and Sherlock turns Balthazar around to grin at Mrs. Hudson. "Why don't you go on home, Anderson?"

Anderson is gaping like the idiot that he is. "But we just start-"

"You heard the woman," Lestrade's louder voice booms as he appears next to Mrs. Hudson. "Off you go."

Sherlock smirks at the sound of Anderson's scoff and shuffling footsteps as he walks off.

"Honestly Sherlock, I don't know why you keep him around," Mrs. Hudson tuts as Sherlock dismounts. "He's ridiculous."

Sherlock laughs. "True. But he's supposed to be one of the top coaches. And I only train with the best."

Hiring Anderson was more of a power play than anything else. Sherlock knew his competition wanted him years ago so Sherlock went ahead and picked him up simply out of spite.

It wasn't as fun as he'd anticipated when he'd realized not only was Anderson a bastard but also an idiot.

Now, Sherlock couldn't say why he keeps Anderson around. Sherlock doesn't care much if he wins or losses anymore.

"Well, I suppose it's your decision dear," Mrs. Hudson agrees. "But all final decisions go through me."

Sherlock chuckles. "Don't I know it," he replies to his head trainer and Mrs. Hudson beams.

He kisses her cheek.

"Good to see you mate," Lestrade slaps a hand on his shoulder. "How's uni?"

"Tedious," Sherlock replies and Lestrade laughs.

"Of course you'd think that," he chuckles. "Well things are going fine around here. Balthazar is looking good. And of course good old Dolly, still crazy as ever."

Sherlock grins at his stable caretaker. He loves the team that makes up his family. With his mother dying when he was small and his brother moving to London after completing university, it's really been just Sherlock and his father, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, along with a plethora of ranch hands and the unfortunate occasional appearance of Anderson whom they pay handsomely to keep off other rider's payrolls.

"They seem well," Sherlock nods in agreement.

"You look good out there," Mrs. Hudson nods toward the course but Sherlock doesn't miss the flicker in her eyes. "A bit rusty but you'll get back to it."

Sherlock nods. "I'll need to start consistent practices to prepare for the competition."

Sherlock doesn't miss Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson exchanging a glance. "What?"

Lestrade clears his throat. "Listen, Sherlock…we're not so sure you should compete this summer."

Sherlock's eyes widen. "Excuse me?"

"You've been away, dear," Mrs. Hudson soothes. "It's been a whole year since you've trained. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to hang up your riding boots now. You've had a good run-"

"Absolutely not," Sherlock bites, almost panicked.

How could they even say that to him? Don't they know the rules? The promise he made?

If he stopped riding, stopped competing, his father would get rid of his small fleet of horses and Sherlock would be broken. The stables would probably be torn down. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would be gone too, with nothing left for them to do with no horses to take care of or riders to train.

 _Of course_  Sherlock wants to stop competing. His heart isn't in it any longer. He would rather spend his days tending to his beautiful animals and riding in the sun.

But he can't.

If he stops competing, he'd lose everything.

"You can still ride, sweetheart," Mrs. Hudson smiles. "We're just not sure-"

"I'm sure," Sherlock says angrily. How  _dare_  they. "I'm certain I will be able to compete just fine."

The two adults take small steps back. "Alright," Mrs. Hudson says softly. "It's your choice."

"Thank you," Sherlock snarks.

"Oh, by the way," she says. "Have you met the new boy?"

Sherlock nods, ignoring the thrill at the mention of John. "Unfortunately. Who is he?"

Mrs. Hudson chuckles. "What, you haven't figured it out yet? University has done nothing for your deduction skills, I see."

Sherlock's lips twitch but he won't give in to the grin. "I know he's a uni student," he says with a raised eyebrow. "I know he's staying in the guest house with the rest of the ranch hands. I know he plays some sport, rugby would be my guess. I know he's working here because he needs the money. I know he's obvious and stupid like most people."

Mrs. Hudson laughs. "Oh Sherlock," she shakes her head fondly. "You've only got half the story."

Sherlock rolls his eyes but Mrs. Hudson only continues to smile. "Why don't you spend some time with him? I think you'll like him more than you think."

"He's a good kid," Lestrade agrees. "I've known his family for years."

Sherlock doesn't like the mischievous spark in his trainer's eye or the smirk on his stable caretaker's lips but they're both gone before he can mention it.

 

* * *

 

"Those are quite the trousers," John says. He's hauling saddles into the new shed and Sherlock is hanging up his riding gear from practice.

Sherlock huffs. "They aren't  _trousers_. They're  _breeches_." He eyes John's jeans and smirks. "I don't even know what  _those_  are called," he says, flicking his hand toward John's lower half.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't would you," John laughs. "Posh bastard."

"Hm," Sherlock replies.

He doesn't know what else to say.

He's tried his standard off-putting personality with this boy but John seems to sort of...enjoy it?

Sherlock really doesn't know what to do with himself around this boy. He's not used to people  _choosing_  to speak to him. He's not exactly a warm person.

He shuffles his feet for a minute and then says, "Well, bye."

Then internally punches himself for how truly moronic that sounded.

John laughs. "I suppose it is quittin' time," he grins. "I think some of the lads are going to have some beers back at the house." He cocks his head. "Wanna come?"

Sherlock gapes. He's never been invited. To anything.

He shakes himself into responding when he sees a smirk forming on John's face and narrows his eyes. "Absolutely not," he said indignantly. "I don't have  _time_  for-"

"Fun?" John cuts him off with a smirk.

Sherlock crosses his arms defiantly. "Not what I was going to say."

John laughs. "Whatever you say," he smiles and turns to leave. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock wonders what it would be like to just go and have a beer. Not feel the need to constantly be doing something. Not feel the weight of the world on his shoulders all the bloody time.

Sherlock can't even imagine.

It physically hurts him not to follow.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock wakes in a cold sweat, body trembling violently as he blinks himself awake.

His heart is pounding.

His blood is rushing in his ears.

His hand is on his groin.

He scrambles to a sitting position, gasping for air, shaking his head.

 _What_  in the _hell_  was _that_?

Sherlock presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.

Bad choice.

He gasps as pictures flash behind his eyes from the dream he's just woken from.

Hands on his hips, lips on his neck, fingers in his hair...all limbs belonging to the new stable boy that now roams his property.

Sherlock dives off his bed and straight to the shower, wiggling out of his soiled pants and flipping the tap to freezing cold.

This is _not_  him.

This is not  _Sherlock_.

What is happening to him?

He's never... he doesn't do this.

He doesn't lose control like this.

He doesn't lose focus like this.

He doesn't  _feel_  like this.

This has to stop.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock takes Balthazar out to the lake before practice.

He needs to clear his head.

His steed takes a drink of the water as Sherlock leans against him, breathing in his familiar scent, attempting to clean out his foggy brain.

He fails miserably.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock unsnaps his helmet and tears off his gloves, tossing them to the ground in a flurry of frustrated motions.

He's ridden terribly today.

Again.

It's been two solid weeks of shitty practice.

Two weeks of absurd wet dreams and blue eyes catching his and blond hair glistening in the sun.

He has no focus. No direction.

He's bloody distracted.

He kicks his helmet in frustration, running his hand through his hair.

He needs to stop noticing John noticing  _him_. He needs to stop looking for John in the stables.

He needs to stop dreaming about John.

He needs to stop wondering what it would be like if he threw caution to the wind and did something.

Something reckless.

He needs to stop wondering and stop hoping and go back to what he knows. What he does best.

What he used to do best.

He tries not to search the stables for the blond boy but his eyes travel at their own accord, sweeping down the entryway and across the lawn.

John is nowhere to be seen.

Sherlock releases a breath.

Maybe it's for the best.

Maybe he needs to go back to his room and lay down. Regroup.

Refocus.

But not before he sees Dolly.

Because torturing himself seems like a good plan.

Sherlock walks to the other end to Dolly's stall.

It's empty.

Irrational fear runs down Sherlock's spine.

He runs out of the stables, preparing to scream for Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade or someone to tell him where Dolly is, when he sees a figure galloping toward him from the distance.

He whirls around and quickly catches sight of his horse he'd just locked up.

Balthazar is eating.

It can only be Dolly galloping in from the meadow.

And there is a rider on her back.

Sherlock is struck by sheer jealousy and panic all at once as he sees another person riding his horse.

The one he's forbidden to ever ride.

He takes off toward them, marching to the fence, clenching his fists.

John Watson's face becomes clear as they get closer and panic turns into rage as Sherlock watches the blue eyed boy ride in grinning, blond hair windblown by the speed of Dolly's gallop.

" _What_  are you  _doing_?" Sherlock's hands are in his hair, pulling at his curls anxiously, eyes wide.

"Giving her a little exercise," John replies casually as Dolly comes to a halt at the gate in front of Sherlock.

"Get down," Sherlock demands. "You aren't - you can't  _do_  that."

John smirks. "Sure I can," he says, giving the reigns a tug, turning Dolly back around, kicking a heel against her side and she begins to trot away.

"Stop!" Sherlock cries. "Put her back!"

"She's fine," John replies, pulling on the reins to slow Dolly back down. He leans down and pats Dolly's neck. "You're just fine, aren't you pretty girl?"

Sherlock's anger skyrockets.  _No one_  calls Dolly that except Sherlock. "Get down!" Sherlock demands. "You have no right to touch her!"

"Would you relax," John replies flippantly. "She's perfectly alright. Just needed to have a rider that trusts her."

"You don't even...-what?" Sherlock startles back to what was just said. "What does that mean?"

John snorts. "Come on now, Sherlock. Aren't you supposed to be brilliant?"

Sherlock glares as hard as he can. "You don't even know her."  _She's mine_ Sherlock barely keeps from growling _._

 _"_ I think I know her pretty well actually." John does not seem fazed in the least that Sherlock is fuming.

Sherlock hates him.

"Get. Down." Sherlock snaps low and dangerous. If he can't ride her, no one can. Especially John stupid Watson who's been invading his thoughts and dreams and goddamn _life_.

John glances at Sherlock's reddening face, narrows his eyes and says, "She needs to run, Sherlock. She can't just stay in her pen all day every day. It's not good for her."

"You don't know  _anything_. Now get  _off_."

"You're a bit dramatic."

"And you're just the  _help,"_ Sherlock spits with so much venom John's eyes widen. "Get  _off_  my horse. She's  _mine_."

John rolls his eyes. "Seriously? Are you five? She's yours and therefore no one else is allowed to play with her?"

"Yes!" Sherlock cries. "I can't ride her and no one else should!" He should be embarrassed by how petulant he sounds but he's so bloody furious he can't be arsed to care. "She's mine!"

John stares at him for a long time.

And then he laughs.

He _laughs_.

"You're a bit of a child for a nineteen-year-old," John chuckles. "See ya."

And with that, John turns Dolly around, digs his heels in and takes off toward the open field.

Sherlock gapes after them, convinced he's never been so blindingly angry in his life.

 

* * *

 

"Fire him."

"No."

"Fire him now, Mrs. Hudson."

"Nope."

" _Mrs. Hudson_!" Sherlock cries indignantly.

"I gave him permission to ride the horses, Sherlock. He's very good with them and-"

"He can ride Balthazar," Sherlock says desperately, knees wobbling as he considers dropping to the floor and begging. "I don't care. Just not Dolly." Sherlock can see already he's fighting a losing battle as Mrs. Hudson stares sympathetically. "Please," he murmurs. "Please."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson tuts. "I know she's important to you." She sighs as she pats his shoulder. "But John is right, she needs exercise. And if he can control her, he should be allowed to take her out. No one else can. She trusts him."

Sherlock turns hard on his heel, shameful tears filling his eyes. It's not fair. Dolly trusts  _him_. Not some stranger who  _works_  here. He should be the one taking her out. He should be the one on her back while she gallops freely along the property.

He hurries off down the hall. He's got one more option. He'll get this sorted.

 

* * *

 

"No."

"But-"

"No, Sherlock."

"Please, I-"

"We have a deal."

"But I think-"

"No. And that's my final answer."

Sherlock glowers at his father with as much malice as humanly possible. "She's mine," he bites. "I should be allowed to ride her."

"Well, you're not and I'm not changing my mind so you might as well get over it."

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming in frustration. "Fine," he snaps. "But make a rule that the _help_  can't take her out either."

" _Sherlock Holmes_!" his father slams down his paper and stares wide-eyed at his son. "Don't you ever say something like that again, young man. You do not talk about people like that. I raised you better than that."

Sherlock's face reddens, a mix of embarrassment and anger flooding his cheeks.

"You know Mrs. Hudson and Greg make the decisions about the stables. If you have a problem with who takes your horses out, take it up with them." His father shoots him a disappointed glare.

" _Fine!_ " Sherlock yells and runs to his room, never feeling so awful in his life.

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, he hears a soft knock and his father murmuring something about dinner.

Sherlock ignores him and closes his eyes again.

 

* * *

He's formed a plan.

Screw the rules. He cannot allow this to go on. He needs to protect what's his.

It's time to break the rules. It's time for him to ruffle his perfectly coiffed feathers and walk into known danger and make this right.

The stakes are high.

If his father finds out, he may lose Dolly forever.

But he has to do this.

Sherlock has never broken a rule in his life. He doesn't do dangerous things. He does what he's told and follows a schedule and sits ramrod straight and is the definition of a posh brat.

He knows this.

It's time to redefine himself.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock paces his room until the sun peeks through his curtains, and then he's off, slipping into the hall and down the stairs.

It's his usual morning routine.

With one major diversion.

He takes off across the property to the stables.

It's silent in the cool morning air and Sherlock wonders if he's even breathing.

He forces himself to inhale and exhale, attempting to calm his nerves.

He has to do this.

For him.

For Dolly.

He rounds the corner and attempts a shaky grin as Dolly stares back at him from her door.

Sherlock nods at her and whispers encouragements as he slips into her pen for the first time without Lestrade present. "We're going to try something a little different today, pretty girl," Sherlock murmurs as he places the saddle on her back. "I know you need to run." He strokes his hand down her back as he hooks the buckles of the saddle. He then grabs hold of the reins as he leads her out of the stables.

Sherlock can feel himself shaking. He's never done anything like this before. Never blatantly gone against his father's wishes. Never done anything this risky.

Dolly could throw him off. Dolly could seriously hurt him. Dolly could kill him.

A thrill of adrenaline runs through his body.

He hooks his foot into the saddle and pulls himself up, exhilarated by the mere fact that he is doing something he's dreamt about since laying eyes on this beautiful mare. He's wanted to ride freely into the meadow on this wild steed, formal wear and rules be damned.

He's wearing a t-shirt and jeans for the special occasion.

One more two-finger salute to his career in show.

He takes a deep breath and digs his heels into Dolly's side and gives the reins a gentle flick.

 

 

And then Sherlock is sailing through the air, pain shooting through his back.

 

 

And then his world fades to black.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Sherlock."

 

He thinks he groans in response.

 

"Wake up, Sherlock."

 

His eyes flutter, blurry brightness peeking through his slitted eyelids. "Mm," he moans. A hand glides through his hair.

"There you go, come on."

That voice suddenly becomes very familiar and Sherlock reaches up to rub his eyes, clearing his vision.

He blinks several times to see John Watson's face staring down at him crinkled in concern.

"Hi," John murmurs. "How do you feel?"

Sherlock goes to sit up, his joints crackling, muscles tight. "Like I got hit by a bus."

John chuckles softly. "Well, I suppose that's close enough seeing as you got hit by a barn."

Sherlock's eyes widen. "What?"

John shakes his head. "What were you thinking, Sherlock? She could have killed you."

And suddenly, Sherlock realizes what happened.

Dolly must have thrown him.

He moves his arms and legs subtly. Nothing hurts too much. He got lucky.

"You may have a concussion," John says, eyeing Sherlock's movements. "But I don't think anything's broken. You're moving pretty well for someone who's been unconscious for two minutes."

Two minutes?

Shit.

"Does my-"

"No one was out here except me," John assures him quickly. "I saw you sneak out here and saddle Dolly. It wasn't too hard to sort out what you were doing."

Sherlock stares at this oddly kind boy for a long moment. "So - what...I mean how-"

"Your first mistake was the deep breath," John says. "Dolly knew you didn't trust her not to hurt you. She's smart, that one. She knows when her rider doesn't believe in her."

"I do believe in her," Sherlock attempts to sound indignant but he's still a bit weak.

"No you don't," John says. "You believed that  _she_  would trust  _you_. And she does. But she won't let you stay on until she knows that trust is returned."

Sherlock doesn't know how to response. He only stares back, confusion and anger and awe all warring for dominance within him.

John shakes his head. "Anyway, I watched Dolly throw you off and ran out to grab her before she trampled you."

Panic coursed through Sherlock. "Is she okay?"

John nodded. "She's wrangled and back in her stall."

Sherlock relaxed immediately and nodded.

Then another terrifying thought passed through his mind. He glanced up into those blue eyes. "Are you...are you going to tell my father?"

John grins. "Only if you have any medical issues after this," he chuckles. "But I think you'll be fine. You're alert and coherent enough to worry about getting in trouble like a good little boy."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Thanks for the opinion,  _doctor_." He spits the word with as much malice as possible.

John snorts. "You're welcome. Although technically, I'm still studying for my degree. I suppose being a year out practically qualifies me, right?"

Sherlock furrows his brow. "You... You're really going to be a doctor?"

John laughs as he nods. "Sure am."

This boy only gets more interesting.

This dirty, disorderly, sexy as all hell,  _dangerous_  boy is almost a  _doctor_.

Sherlock doesn't know how to respond.

"You know, there are other ways to get a thrill," John smirks. "Ways that won't get you killed."

Smug bastard.

It shouldn't turn Sherlock on like it does.

He should hate John.

God knows he's been trying.

"Gee, thanks for the tip," Sherlock rolls his eyes and goes to stand, teetering on his feet.

John grabs his arms. "Woah, careful," he says.

Sherlock wriggles out of his grasp, glaring furiously. "I'm  _fine_ ," he bites. "And I don't need some  _stable boy_  taking care of me."

John has his usual reaction to Sherlock's rudeness. He laughs. "Yeah okay," he chuckles. "Sorry your highness."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and stalks off back to the house.

"Are you ever going to lighten up?" John calls after him.

"Unlikely," Sherlock calls back without turning around.

He can hear John laughing in response.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock finds his way back to the stables in the late morning, slipping into Dolly's stall unseen.

"I'm so sorry, pretty girl," he murmurs, nuzzling his face into her mane. "That was so stupid of me. I'm so sorry."

Dolly blinks and sighs and Sherlock has never felt so guilty in his life.

"I won't do that again to you," he whispers. "I promise."

"I think she'll forgive you," a voice comes from outside the wooden door and Sherlock freezes in horror.

Silently, he presses his lips to his beloved horse, slips out of the stall and stalks back toward his house, refusing to look at the smirking boy leaning against the wall.

* * *

Sherlock is just pulling on his riding gear and heading out the door for afternoon practice when his father bursts through the back door, covered head to toe in sweat. He's huffing and puffing and gasping for air.

"What happened to you?" Sherlock asks, a little stunned to see his normally calm peaceful father looking to frazzled.

Mr. Holmes puts his hands on his knees as he heaves, coughing twice before finally responding. He throws a thumb over his shoulder. "Dolly," he wheezes.

Sherlock's blood runs cold. "What about Dolly?" he demands.

His father shakes his head and Sherlock doesn't move an inch until he speaks.

Mr. Holmes wipes his brow. "She...she got out," he says and Sherlock stares wide-eyed, a million questions racing in his head.

"She's fine," his father waves his hand at his youngest son's shocked reaction. "She's fine."

Sherlock lets out a whoosh of relieved breath, slapping his hand to his chest. "Oh," he murmurs, trying to calm his own rapidly beating heart. "What happened then?"

His father's breath finally slows. "One of the ranch hands left the latch open on her stall. She almost killed Anderson when she burst out suddenly and took off."

Sherlock suppresses a shrug. Losing Anderson wouldn't have been the worst thing in the world. As long as it wasn't his father. Or Mrs. Hudson. Or J-

Nope.

Sherlock halts that train of thought before it gets away from him.

"We just spent twenty minutes wrangling her," Mr. Holmes says. "Most of the men were on break so Anderson and I were chasing her around. Christ, I haven't run like that in years."

"How'd you get her in?"

His father limps toward the kitchen. "Actually," his father huffs a laugh, "it was John who finally caught her."

Sherlock didn't respond. He's too shocked to say anything.

"The minute she saw him, she stopped running and trotted over to him," his father continued. "It was...bizarre to say the least. I mean Anderson works with her all the time. She probably knows him better."

"Well, most individuals run from Anderson if they know what's good for them," Sherlock mutters.

His father chuckles as he fills a glass of water. "True." He takes a gulp and then furrows his brow. "I don't know who would have left Dolly's door unlatched. Most of the blokes here are terrified of her. They always make sure they lock her up."

Sherlock nods in agreement, equally curious.

Then it hits him.

 _He_  was the one in Dolly's stall this morning.

 _He_  was the one who burst out after John had made that snide remark.

He swallows thickly.

His father notices. "Sherlock?"

Panic-stricken, Sherlock stays silent. If his father found out he was in Dolly's stall... if he found out what Sherlock had  _done_  this morning-

"Well, looks like it was that John boy that left the door unlocked," Anderson's nasally voice comes from the doorway. "I just questioned all the workers and John is the one with her the most."

"Really?" Mr. Holmes says. "Greg told me John is always so careful when he takes her out."

"It was him," Anderson says with a smug nod. "He confessed too. Said he must have forgotten."

Sherlock hardly hears his father's response of 'What are you, a detective now?' before he's bolting out the door to the stables, vision blurring with pure, unadulterated fury.

 

* * *

 

"What is your problem?!" Sherlock demands, rounding into the barn, finding John exactly where he knew he'd be.

John turns from where he was stacking hay bales, brow furrowing. "Sorry?"

Sherlock glares daggers. "Why are you covering for me? What's your motive?"

John stares back. "Motive?"

"Yes!" Sherlock shrieks. "I don't understand!"

Because he truly doesn't. He doesn't understand John taunting him, taking  _his_  horse out, then turning around and protecting him. He doesn't understand why John is haunting his dreams and smirking at him when they catch eyes and why he fucking  _laughs_ when Sherlock is snide. He doesn't bloody  _understand_.

John takes a small step forward. "Sherlock," he says softly. "What are you talking about?"

"You!" Sherlock yells, pointing a finger at John. "Why are you doing this?!"

"Sherlock-"

"No!" Sherlock demands, shaking his head sharply. "No. Don't 'Sherlock' me. Something is going on. You... you're up to something."

"Sherlock-"

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"Sherlock-"

"What are you doing?"

"Sherlock-"

"Stop saying my name!"

"Well then shut up and let me say something!" John yells back taking a step closer. "I'm not doing anything! I've got no motive, I'm not up to anything, I just work here!"

"Oh please!" Sherlock cries. "That is such bullocks I can't even-"

"It is  _not_  bullocks!" John shrieks indignantly.

"Yes it is! Nothing you do makes any sense!"

"What are you-"

"First you flirt with me. Then you ride my horse. And now you're covering for me? Why? Are you making fun of me? Do you know that I like you so you're intentionally trying to hurt me?"

John's angry face sudden falls, forehead wrinkling in concern. "What?"

Sherlock replays what he just said back in his mind then freezes. "Nothing," he murmurs, eyes wide. "Never mind." He turns hard on his heel and attempts to take off, but a strong hand wraps around his wrist.

"Don't," Sherlock demands, but the grip doesn't loosen. "John-"

The hand gives a hard yank and Sherlock spins back, falling chest-first into John Watson's strong body.

Before he can react, John secures a hand on the back of Sherlock's head and the other buries deep in the front of Sherlock's shirt.

He barely takes a breath before John is pulling him down.

Into a kiss.

Sherlock's lips mash clumsily against John's as he all but falls forward, but John holds him still, effectively securing their mouths.

John whirls them around and presses Sherlock's back against the barn wall, pressing his lips more insistently against Sherlock's. Sherlock gasps for breath and John takes the unintentional invitation, diving his tongue into Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock melts immediately.

John's mouth is warm and his tongue is strong and his lips are soft and Sherlock realizes his fingers are wrapped in John's shirt. "John," he gasps.

"I would  _never_  want to hurt you," John snarls, biting Sherlock's lip. "Never."

Something zings low in Sherlock's spine. "John," he rasps again.

"Fucking  _finally_ ," John breathes, licking his tongue over Sherlock's. "God, I've wanted to do this all bloody summer."

"R-Really?" Sherlock says breathlessly as John sucks kisses down his jaw to his neck.

"You have no idea," John growls. "You're a bloody tease, Sherlock Holmes. An innocent little  _tease_."

Sherlock whimpers. "I didn't- _Oh_ ," his words turn into a moan as John licks over his pulse point. His eyes roll back in his head as John's mouth works his neck, sucking and biting.

"You want a little excitement, don't you Sherlock?" John groans against his skin. "You're bored out of your skull of your perfect little life, aren't you?"

Sherlock is nodding without thinking.

"Good," John pulls back suddenly, removing his hands and lips from Sherlock's body and steps away.

Sherlock's eyes flutter open to stare, a soft whimper escaping his lips at the loss of contact. "J-John?"

"That's what this has all been about," John says fiercely. "I wanted to be sure."

"Sure about what?"

John smirks. "Sure you could handle it."

Sherlock isn't certain he understands, but the way his skin breaks out in goose flesh tells him his body might.

"I've got to get back to work," the blond says, grinning at Sherlock's obviously shocked look. He laughs and turns to leave.

"Wh-What?" Sherlock manages, head spinning out of control.

"Oh, don't worry," John says at the doorway. "This isn't over."

Sherlock blinks. A shiver runs up his spine. That familiar shiver.

That adrenaline shiver.

"What-" Sherlock clears his throat when the word comes out a whisper. "What are you going to do to me?"

John feral grin answers his question but his words do things to Sherlock he never knew were possible.

"Bad things," John growls. "I'm going to do very bad things to you, Sherlock."

Sherlock gulps in response and John disappears around the corner.

 

* * *

 

His body hasn't stopped buzzing.

He's been vibrating since his encounter with John in the stables.

He hardly heard Anderson screaming at him during practice. He barely registered Mrs. Hudson then berating Anderson for screaming.

He misses Lestrade's knowing grin.

He misses Mrs. Hudson beaming.

His lips are still scorching.

He wanders back to his room distractedly.

He's dazed.

_Bad things._

He stifles a moan as he replays those words.

_I'm going to do very bad things to you, Sherlock._

The anticipation is killing him.

He lays on his bed, fighting the tingling in his nerves.

He feels like he's on fire.

He's never felt anything like it before.

Sure, he's had orgasms. He's tossed off plenty of times.

But he's never been blatantly aroused like this.

He's never been undeniably attracted to someone like this.

He just wants to touch him again. To touch John. To touch his tanned skin, feel his warm body, taste his lips.

Sherlock groans softly.

His hands wander but he stops them.

He wants to keep this feeling.

He wants it to last.

He wants to feel what it's like when John gets him off.

Sherlock falls asleep to images of blue sparkling eyes and thick, bulky muscles.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock snaps awake.

It's dark in his room. It must be late.

He has no idea what's woken him.

A sharp tap comes from the window and Sherlock jumps, heart leaping into his throat.

Slowly, he crawls out of his bed and reaches for the window just as another tap comes.

Sherlock pushes the window open to find John Watson grinning at him, tiny rocks in his hand.

Sherlock's eyes widen.

John jerks his head. "Come on," he whispers.

"Where?"

"You'll see."

Sherlock doesn't ask anymore questions.

He doesn't want to.

He throws on a sweatshirt over his t-shirt and pajama bottoms and sneaks out of the house barefoot.

John is on him before the door is even closed.

"Hi," he murmurs heatedly in Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock whimpers.

John takes his hand and grins. "Come on."

Sherlock grips John's hand tightly. He's terrified.

It's exhilarating.

"So how does it feel?"

Sherlock frowns. "How does what feel?"

"Rule-breaking."

Sherlock scoffs. "I've broken rules before."

"Oh really?" John says skeptically.

"Yes," Sherlock replies defiantly.

"When?"

Sherlock falls silent, trying to think.

"Didn't think so," John says smugly.

Sherlock stops short and drops John's hand. "Is this all this is going to be?" His voice is a bit sharper than he'd meant it to be.

John stops as well. "What?"

"Are you just going to make fun of me all the time?" Sherlock crosses his arms. "Yes, I'm a good boy. Yes, I follow the rules because it keeps the things that are important to me in my life. Are you just going to tease me every time we spend time together?"

John stays silent for a moment.

Then he takes a step toward Sherlock and reaches for his hand. "I'm sorry," he says softly. "I don't mean to make fun." He brings Sherlock's hand to his lips and lays a kiss against his fingers. "But I can see it in you, Sherlock," he breathes. "I can see you're not happy. I can see that you want more than this. You're bored to death and you want more than that. You want danger. You want a little thrill."

Sherlock can't breath.

"Let me give it to you, Sherlock," John murmurs, taking Sherlock's finger into his mouth. "Let me give you a thrill."

Sherlock is nodding as he watches John's lips suck his fingertips.

"When was the last time you went swimming?"

Sherlock gulps. "A long time ago."

John laughs. "Good."

"Are we going to the lake?"

"What does it keep in your life?"

"What?"

John starts walking, lacing his fingers with Sherlock's and pulling him along. "You said following the rules helps you keep the things that are important to you in your life. What things?"

Sherlock clears his throat. It's not like its some big secret but he still feels oddly vulnerable. "My horses."

"Mm," John says. "I kind of figured."

They walk in silence for a moment.

"You're good with them," John says softly.

Sherlock snorts. "Apparently you're better."

John gives his hand a squeeze. "Only with Dolly, Sherlock. And you'll get there. It takes practice."

Sherlock shakes his head sadly. "No, unfortunately, I won't."

"How come?"

"I'm not... My father says he'll sell her if I ride her."

John is quiet for a moment then blows out a breath. "That's terrible."

"He's just worried she'll hurt me," Sherlock feels the need to defend his father. Mr. Holmes is not a bad dad. He's just overprotective.

"Well that is a valid concern," John huffs a laugh. "But I dunno. I think she could be great if you kept trying."

Sherlock nods. He agrees wholeheartedly but unfortunately it's not that simple.

"We'll find a way," John says confidently.

Sherlock shrugs a response. He wants to believe John. But he knows better.

The lake glimmers in the moonlight as they approach.

"Are we swimming in our pajamas?" Sherlock asks curiously.

John pulls off his shirt.

Sherlock's breath stutters.

"If you want to," John says as he flicks open the flies of his jeans.

Sherlock stares. He should realize he's staring but his brain seems to have shut down.

John's jeans fall down his thighs and pool around his ankles.

His red pants are the sexiest things Sherlock has ever seen.

John tosses him a saucy smile and then turns toward the lake.

Sherlock can't move.

Just as John's about to reach the water, he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his pants.

And tugs.

He steps out of his pants, tosses them over his shoulder, and slips into the water.

Two things go through Sherlock's head.

The first is that John Watson, who he's been having increasingly dirty dreams about, is currently naked in the water in front of him.

The second is that John Watson has a fantastic body. A fantastic arse in particular.

"Come on!" John calls. "Water's fine!"

Sherlock watches as John dives under and comes back up, hair dripping, wet mouth grinning.

Sherlock bites his lip.

Sherlock  _wants_  John.

John dives under again and Sherlock quickly and efficiently strips off his clothing, running starkers into the water before John resurfaces.

He doesn't have nearly enough confidence to undress while John watches.

John's head reappears, spouting water and squeezing his eyes shut. Sherlock keeps his distance so as not to startle him.

"Can I open my eyes?"

Sherlock actually laughs. "Yes," he says, wading further into the water to fully immerse himself.

John opens his eyes and smiles. "Naughty," he says with a wink, eyeing the pile of Sherlock's clothing.

Sherlock's lips twitch. "You did it first."

"True," John says, gliding toward him. "Am I going to have to make the first move as well?"

"Stripping wasn't your move?" Sherlock asks, cocking his head and John laughs.

"Not even close," he says and he wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock tilts his head, anticipating the snog he's assuming is about to happen when suddenly John darts behind him.

And pulls him under water.

Sherlock flails, coughing and spluttering as he surfaces. "John!" he cries indignantly, wiping his eyes and shaking his wet hair.

John, of course, is giggling madly. "Sorry," he says insincerely, "but you are adorable when you're flustered."

"Hmph," Sherlock replies, still catching his breath and rubbing water from his eyes. "I'll get you back you know."

"I'd love to see you try," John murmurs smugly and Sherlock opens his eyes to find John rather close.

His breath catches as John descends upon him, pulling him by his hips and crashing their mouths together.

It's filthy.

Much filthier then the stable kiss.

Sherlock's mouth is being pried open and John is taking everything, sucking his tongue and licking the backs of his teeth. Sherlock moans and grabs John's shoulders, hanging on and keeping him close as John plunders his mouth.

"Has anyone ever made you come before, Sherlock?" John murmurs, hands tightening on Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock shakes his head.

John lets out a primal noise and lifts him up, pulling Sherlock's legs on either side of his hips.

"Let me be the first," John whispers as Sherlock wraps his legs around John's back, hooking his ankles.

Sherlock nods.

Their cocks touch and Sherlock cries out, a fine shiver running down every limb in his body, reaching ever nerve ending and lighting it on fire.

"Mm, you like that?" John growls, grinding his hips into Sherlock's.

"Oh  _god_ ," Sherlock breathes, fingers sliding into the hairs on the back of John's neck and holding on. "J-John."

John bucks his hips and Sherlock clings to him. "There you go, baby, that's it."

Sherlock is tingling in every fiber of his being. "John," is the only word he seems to remember. He rubs himself harder against John's equally hard cock.  _Christ_ , it's incredible.

"You're being such a bad boy, Sherlock," John croones. " _Such_ a bad boy. Breaking rules so you can come out into the dark with me. So you can  _fucking come_  for me. So naughty. So so naughty."

Sherlock moans loudly. Why were those words so bloody _hot_? John's driving Sherlock positively  _wild._  He grinds his hips desperately.

"Christ, I wanna see you come, Sherlock," John is whispering darkly in his ear. "Fucking come for me."

"John I- f-fuck," Sherlock can barely breath. He's holding on to John so tightly, throwing his hips against John's uncoordinatedly, wanting - no -  _needing_  more friction. The slide of their cocks in the water is mind-blowing and Sherlock is losing control.

"Come, Sherlock," John is muttering breathlessly. "You dirty boy, I know you want to. Come for me. Do it, Sherlock."

Sherlock sinks his teeth into John's shoulder as his hips spasm. He comes hard, muffling moans against John's skin, shuddering through his release. He can hear John murmuring distantly but he isn't listening.

If he'd ever been drunk before, Sherlock would guess this is exactly how it would feel. He's positively dazed, his body still thrumming from release.

"How was that?" John asks, kissing his neck.

Sherlock nods without speaking and John laughs. "That good, eh?"

Sherlock nuzzles his face into John's shoulder.

He could stay here forever.

"You're truly gorgeous when you come, Sherlock," John says, rubbing circles over Sherlock's back.

Sherlock hums in reply. He shifts his weight to wrap himself further around John when something hard hits his belly.

He freezes.

John snorts. "It's alright," John chuckles. "You have one too, ya know."

Sherlock immediately pulls back, unhooking his legs. "Reciprocation," he mumbles. "Of course. I'm sorry John, I don't-"

"Hey, woah," John says, pulling Sherlock back to him. "It's alright. I'm fine, okay? You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

Sherlock searches John's face for the lie but he only stares back with total sincerity. "But…what about-"

"I can deal with it later, love," John grins. "I really just wanted to ravish you tonight."

Christ, the things that came out of John's mouth…they _did_  things to Sherlock.

He wanted to touch John and his filthy mouth and his fantastic arse.

"But I'd like to…" Sherlock murmurs. "I've never- but I think- I mean I know I-"

John laughs and places a hand on Sherlock's cheek. "You can if you'd like, sweetheart," he says, looking at Sherlock adoringly. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

Sherlock nods. Slowly, he slides his hand down John's stomach.

His fingers graze the head of John's cock and John sucks in a sharp breath.

It encourages Sherlock. He wraps his fingers around John's shaft, watching for any sign of pain in John's face. He doesn't want to hurt him. He wants to do the exact opposite.

"Mm," John murmurs, eyes fluttering closed.

Sherlock's stomach does an excited backflip.

He begins to stroke like he does himself, slowly dragging long pulls over John's cock.

He watches John's face closely, thrilled when John's breath stutters or a small whimper escapes his lips.

John cants his hips and Sherlock speeds up his hand, anticipation beating in his belly as John sucks in a sharp breath.

"Oh...oh," John mutters, squeezing Sherlock's biceps.

A long moan leaves John's lips and his body goes taut. Sherlock works him through it, fascinated by John's reactions as his orgasm washes through him.

Then John is wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and hugging him close.

Sherlock grins and folds his arms around John's back. "Good?"

"Perfect," John murmurs, pressing kisses to Sherlock's neck and cheek. "So perfect."

Sherlock has never been so proud of himself.

He snuggles against John, trying not to shiver in the water.

He never wants to let go of this dangerous and somehow sweet, wonderful boy.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock has officially moved to La La Land.

Sherlock no longer lives in the real world.

He floats through practice, lovingly petting Balthazar, sighing contentedly as they trot around the course.

He can see Anderson's bright red face. He can see his mouth moving furiously and spit flying and arms waving. But if someone paid Sherlock a million dollars to repeat what Anderson had just said, he would have failed miserably.

He decides it would be nicer to just go out to the clearing and freely ride for the day. No practice. No responsibilities.

He turns Balthazar around, catching Mrs. Hudson's eye as she stands at the fence.

She's smiling warmly at him. He grins back. She winks and nods her head toward the open field.

She always knows.

He chuckles and goes to dig his heels in.

But not before he sees him.

That boy.

That blond boy with the blue eyes that glittered in the moonlight only a few short hours ago.

That boy who has skin that feels rough and smooth all at once. That boy who has a mouth that tastes like honey even when dirty words are coming out of it. That boy who Sherlock cannot stop thinking about long enough to function properly.

That boy.

Who is... glaring at him?

Sherlock's stomach drops. Sherlock's euphoria dissipates in the span of a single heartbeat and the world comes screaming back to him.

"...if you are going to win, although I don't even think  _that's_  in the realm of possibilities with the way you bloody  _look-_ "

"That's enough, Anderson!" Mrs. Hudson barks. "He just needs a break. Screaming at him isn't going to do any good."

"He's not even listening!" Anderson yells. "It's like he's not even here!"

Sherlock loses track of the conversation as he dismounts Balthazar and hands the reigns absently to Mrs. Hudson. "Will you lock him up for me?" He mumbles without really listening for an answer as he takes off toward where John had disappeared inside the shed next to the stables.

He tugs off his gloves and unhooks his helmet, panicked as he searches. "John?" he calls as he gets closer.

What has he done?

What has he possibly done in the last six hours since they separated?

He pulls open the shed door and peers inside. "John?"

John's strong calloused hand wraps around his wrist and pulls him into the darkness.

"John!" Sherlock squeals as the door closes behind him and a dim light comes on overhead. "John, what are you-"

John's fingers come to the hook and eye of Sherlock's waistband. "Fucking breeches," John is muttering as he makes quick work unbuttoning and yanking. " _Breeches_. Really, Sherlock?"

"John-" Sherlock says breathlessly. He doesn't fully understand but he also doesn't care because this is bloody  _exciting_.

"Are you trying to drive me mad?" John growls. "I'm trying to remain sane here but... fuck, you're not making it easy." He tugs down Sherlock's breeches and pants. Sherlock's rapidly filling cock springs free. "God, I want to suck you off," John says, taking Sherlock's shaft in hand.

"Uh! John-" Sherlock throws his head back at the sudden sensation.

"Can I?"

"Oh-yes. Yes, please, John, please..." Sherlock babbles. He closes his eyes, trying to catch his breath.

There are people nearby. Workers. Mrs. Hudson. Anderson. Any of them could walk in right now.

Sherlock is shocked at how much that thought arouses him. Getting caught. Getting caught with his dick in John's mouth. He audibly groans at the thought.

He hears a rustle of movement.

Then John's hand moves and then his cock is immersed in tight, wet, warm heat.

Sherlock's vision whites out entirely. A guttural cry tears from his throat as John's mouth drags up his length. John's strong tongue swirls around the head of his cock, and then he's taking Sherlock all the way back in.

John swallows.

Sherlock's hands are digging into John's hair and he's practically sobbing.

"John! Oh...oh John, John -  _god_ \- John I-" He attempts to warn John. Warn him that he's about to fucking explode and he can't control it and he's spiraling further away.

He gives a halfhearted tug of John's scalp, unsure if it's okay for him to come.

John doesn't move.

He simply continues those long, heated pulls, licking and sucking and swallowing and Sherlock shoves a fist in his mouth as he screams his orgasm.

No one has ever made him come before last night and now he's had two orgasms in less then six hours.

Sherlock is positively drunk on this feeling.

On John.

His legs shake as he tries to control his panting breaths.

John's hands are in his hair as he calms.

"Oh god, Sherlock," John murmurs. "I'm sorry, are you okay? Was that too much? Did I-"

Sherlock shakes his hand and throws a hand over John's mouth.

"Shut up," he breathes. He doesn't want his afterglow delight to be shattered just yet. He shakes his head. "That was... fantastic."

John huffs a laugh behind his hand and Sherlock drops it to his shoulder. John is grinning.

And preening.

God, he's so beautiful.

Sherlock leans forward and kisses him.

He can't help himself.

He can't keep his hands to himself.

John smiles against his lips. "It wasn't too rough?"

Sherlock pushes his tongue into John's mouth, deciding he needs to show John just how much he enjoyed that.

He tastes himself.

He groans and clutches at John's shirt.

He never knew sex would be like this.

Like it could be this...dirty. This intense.

He never knew he would crave it.

He'd never had any interest in it but now...

Now he is very interested in it.

With John.

Only John.

John giggles. "You're a naughty boy, Sherlock," he says into the kiss. "My naughty boy."

Why is that so bloody sexy?

Sherlock moans.

"But you have to promise me," John says between Sherlock's attacks on his lips. "You have to promise if you don't like something, you can say so. Alright?"

Sherlock pulls back and fixes John with a hard stare. "John," he says incredulously. "I may be a virgin but do I seem the type to not tell you if I don't like something?"

John seems a bit shocked at the outburst.

Then he's laughing and pulling Sherlock back in for another kiss. "Fair enough," he says. "Then I'll go on telling you how much I want you." John's lips trail along Sherlock's jaw to his neck. "How much I think about you," he whispers against his skin. He exhales against the shell of Sherlock's ear and licks the cartilage. "How much I enjoy sucking your cock. How delicious you taste when you come in my mouth."

Sherlock just had an orgasm not three minutes previously. He may be young but biologically speaking, he must have a refractory period. He couldn't possibly come again right now.

But the way he's whimpering and pushing his hips into John's, Sherlock wonders if that's complete rubbish. If he could in fact have another go.

"John-"

"I'll go on telling you what a naughty, filthy boy you are because I can tell how much you like it. How you get off on it."

Oh god, it's true.

John's words are obscene. Indecent.

Intoxicating.

"You're so tired of being a good little boy, aren't you, Sherlock?" John murmurs lewdly. "You're sick of being put together all the time. Being prim and proper. You want to be a little bad, don't you?"

Sherlock nods hastily, moaning softly.

"I can't wait to fuck you, Sherlock," John breathes. "I know you're not ready yet but one day... one day I will. One day I will fuck you so hard, give it to you like the naughty boy inside you wants. And you will fucking _love_  it."

Sherlock wants to say he's ready. He wants to convince John he's ready for penetrative sex, ready to be fucked the way John wants. He wants to beg for it.

But he won't.

John is in charge.

John will decide.

It's freeing for Sherlock.

Not to have to make these decisions.

Not to have to worry.

"Can I touch you?" Sherlock murmurs. "Please, can I make you...c-come John?" he's never said that word out loud. It feels foreign and new and vulgar. He loves it.

John grins. "No need, baby. I already took care of it while you were coming in my mouth."

Sherlock chokes out a gasp. "Wh-Really?"

John nods. "Do you have any idea what you look like in these?" He grabs a handful of Sherlock's arse and squeezes. "Christ, it took all I had not to toss off right out in the open at the sight of you."

Sherlock is blushing madly and John grins. "Meet me out in the meadow tomorrow afternoon. Bring Balthazar. We have work to do."

Sherlock frowns. "Work?"

John laughs. "Yes, Sherlock. Come on. This new exciting life of yours isn't just about getting off."

 

* * *

 

"Sherlock?"

His father's voice rings out from the kitchen and Sherlock makes his way toward it.

"Yes father?"

Mr. Holmes coughs. "I don't mean to… intrude but can I ask you a question?"

Panic immediately fills Sherlock.

He must know.

About Dolly.

Fuck.

Sherlock stays stock-still and nods once.

His father glances away.

Nervous.

Sherlock cocks his head.

"Uh-" Mr. Holmes laughs softly and says, "Are you…eh- are you dating John?"

The blood rushes from his face and Sherlock is convinced he's about to faint.

"Which is fine!" His father suddenly surges out of his chair, waving his hands. "It's all fine, Sherlock," he says hastily. "I just… I was just curious."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, watching his father shuffle uncomfortably from foot to foot.

He attempts to detect a lie, but his father seems genuine. Maybe a little concerned. But not because Sherlock is gay, but because… oh.

"Yes," Sherlock says softly.

His father nods. "Well," he blows out a breath. "That's nice." He attempts a smile and Sherlock laughs.

Then he hugs him.

His father, ever the worrier, is concerned about Sherlock getting heartbroken.

It's endearing.

"Just be…aware," his father murmurs in his hair, holding him to his chest like he used to when Sherlock was young.

"Am I ever not?" Sherlock teases.

His father laughs. "I know. But he's your first relationship, Sherlock. It can be…overwhelming."

That was the perfect word for it.

Sherlock nods. "I know."

"If you ever need to talk…"

"I know that too," he laughs and pulls away.

His father nods. "Good."

Sherlock shakes his head fondly. "Thank you, daddy."

His father beams at him.

Sherlock hasn't called him daddy since he was small.

"You're welcome, Sherlock."

 

* * *

 

Sherlock is just wounding Balthazar's reigns around the tree branch, feeling a bit foolish.

He's out in the meadow waiting for John.

Just like John had told him to.

And Sherlock always does as he's told.

He's good at that.

He hears hooves in the distance and he turns, blood immediately draining from his face.

John is riding toward him.

On Dolly.

Sherlock should have known.

"Well hello," John smirks. "Fancy seeing you here."

"I thought I made my feelings perfectly clear on this subject," Sherlock bites.

John shrugs. "You did. I just ignored you."

"John-"

"This isn't hurting you, Sherlock," John says. "I won't do anything that hurts you. Especially in more intimate parts of our relationship. But this is important."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm not allowed to," he says frustratedly. "Don't you understand? If my father catches me he'll... he'll sell her."

John blinks. "Then let's make sure he doesn't catch you."

Sherlock fidgets. "She... she threw me off last time."

"Yeah, I know," John says as he dismounts. "I was there. You're not going to get on her right now. We'll warm up to that. First, she needs to know you trust her."

"I  _do_ -"

"You don't. Christ, you've only gone into her stall all of what, two times? You've only recently crossed the barrier of the door. She knows you don't trust her." John sighs and looks around at the greenery. "But out here? Out here, it's open. It's freeing. If she sees you trust her out in the open, she might come around."

Sherlock eyes John for a long moment.

He's reluctant. This could end very badly.

He swallows hard.

"I'll be right here with you," John says softly. "We'll do it together."

Sherlock doesn't know why he trusts John, but he does. He does with every fiber of his being. He trusts John not to hurt him. He trusts John to take care of him.

Sherlock nods. "Alright then."

John grins. "Let's get to work."

 

* * *

 

It's excruciatingly tedious.

Not the spending time with gorgeous John Watson, who pulls off his shirt in the hot summer sun halfway through training sessions, revealing tanned, rippling muscles.

Not the kissing John Watson senseless in the tall grass after a productive afternoon, hands wandering all over each other, obscene words falling from both their mouths until both their bodies tremble through release.

It's the getting Dolly to trust him part that is frustrating.

It's been three weeks.

Three weeks and Sherlock is still coaxing Dolly, still petting her sides, still trying to prove himself.

John won't let him on Dolly until he's certain she won't toss him.

"I'm not risking it," John says. "I'm not risking  _you_."

It's when John says things like that Sherlock is almost certain.

Certain he's fallen arse over tits in love with this mad boy.

Certain he wants to shag him. Certain he wants John inside his body, fucking him like he's promised to do on so many occasions.

It's these types of thoughts that fill Sherlock's head during his actual practice. The ones where Anderson yells at Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson yells at Anderson, and Sherlock drifts off into his mind, filled with pornographic photos of John Watson in a field doing unspeakable things to Sherlock.

He simply drifts until Anderson either stomps off or gets sent home, and Mrs. Hudson doesn't say a word as she opens the gate and lets Sherlock ride Balthazar out into the open.

Where he meets John.

Balthazar gallops with practiced ease out to their usual spot, and Sherlock is surprised to see John already there, still perched on Dolly.

"Hey you," John calls. "Tie him up and come on over. We're trying something a little different today."

Sherlock nods and dismounts, wrapping Balthazar's reigns around a branch near a green patch of grass for him to munch on and makes his way to Dolly and John.

"What's the new thing?" he asks.

John grins.

Then reaches his hand down. "Come on up."

Sherlock's eyes widen. "What?"

John wiggles his fingers. "She can't throw us both off."

Sherlock continues to stare.

John rolls his eyes. "Come on."

Sherlock hesitates a moment longer.

"Trust me," John says softly. He nods toward Dolly's head. "Trust  _her_."

Sherlock nods.

John's right.

He grabs his hand, hooking his foot in the saddle and John pulls him up. Sherlock straddles John and wraps his arms around his waist.

"Ready?" John calls over his shoulder.

Sherlock nods. "Let's go, pretty girl," he says and John laughs.

He feels relaxed.

John's warm body is comforting.

He feels the calm settle in him, seeping out of his pores and into the magnificent creature below him.

He trusts her entirely.

He trusts John entirely.

Dolly begins to trot.

Sherlock gives John's middle a squeeze. "Oh my god," he murmurs, tucking his chin over John's shoulder. "You did it."

John turns his head and presses a kiss to Sherlock's temple. "We did it, baby. You and me. And Dolly of course," he says, patting Dolly's neck. "Such a good girl."

Dolly snorts.

An hour later, John hops off.

Dolly doesn't seem fazed.

Sherlock is positively delighted.

John pulls himself up onto Balthazar's back and digs his heels in.

Sherlock follows suite and soon they are galloping through the meadow and into the open space of the Holmes property.

Sherlock has never felt so alive.

He's on his precious horse he's longed to ride like this for years.

He's riding next to the boy he loves.

Sherlock has never been happier.

 

* * *

 

They make it back to the ranch before dark, switching horses before anyone can see.

Sherlock pulls John into his arms once the last door is locked and the stables are secured.

"Thank you," he whispers, hugging John tightly. He kisses his cheek. "Thank you so much."

John laughs but hugs him back. "You're more then welcome." He kisses Sherlock's lips and grins when Sherlock hums. "Is it time for celebrating, naughty boy?"

Sherlock freezes for a moment, working himself up to it.

"Sherlock?" John murmurs, eyeing him carefully. "You okay?"

Sherlock bites his lip shyly. "I'd like to...stay with you tonight."

John's eyes widen a fraction. "You mean-"

Sherlock nods hastily. "Please," he whispers. "I want you so much, John. I want... I want you to.. to f-fuck me."

John grins. "Oh, god, yes."

 

* * *

 

Sherlock has never felt so exposed in his life.

Not even in the water that first night.

The darkness had covered him.

But tonight, he has nowhere to hide.

Tonight, he's entirely naked and out in the open.

It's electrifying.

He's on his elbows and knees, teeth sinking into his forearm as John's hands come to the cheeks of his arse, spreading him open.

Sherlock waits, anticipation building low in his belly.

John's heated breath ghosts over the cleft of his arse. A wet pressure glides over Sherlock's sensitive skin.

Sherlock whimpers, tense body melting under the touch.

"That's right baby," John moans against his skin. "Relax for me."

John licks a thick damp strip, tongue flattened against Sherlock's puckering hole.

There are no words for the feeling. Sherlock makes a sound between a whimper and a groan as John continues to lick him open.

He's never even considered someone touching him here like this. It's intimate and filthy and Sherlock is reveling in it.

John's strong tongue probes against his opening, the tip sliding in. Sherlock's breath stutters. He tries to relax but the sensation is overwhelming.

He releases a broken breath and John slides a finger into him.

Sherlock gasps.

"Alright?" John murmurs.

Sherlock nods against his forearms, trying to regulate his breathing.

John prods his finger in and out, back and forth, and just as Sherlock is getting used to it, he feels a stretch as a second finger slides in next to the first.

"O-oh-" Sherlock stutters.

John twists his fingers.

And curves them.

Every nerve in Sherlock's body lights on fire.

John brushes against his prostate again then pulls his fingers out.

Sherlock pushes back just as John reinserts them, effectively fucking himself on John's fingers.

"Look at you," John breathes, continuing the thrust of his fingers. "Dirty boy, you like this, don't you?"

John's other hand slides between Sherlock's legs and cups his balls.

Sherlock cries out.

"I've been waiting so long to do this to you, Sherlock," John murmurs, sliding a third finger in, stretching Sherlock further. "To touch you this way. I knew you'd love it."

Sherlock is breathing a string of  _yes_ 's as John probes his fingers in and out.

"I think you're ready, baby," John says. "Can I fuck you now Sherlock? Please?"

Sherlock nods hastily and John removes his fingers.

He feels oddly empty, whining softly at the loss.

There's a dip in the bed as John kneels behind him. Sherlock looks down between his legs, seeing John's hand slide lube over his cock for only a moment before it disappears behind him.

And then he can feel John's cock press against him.

"Bear down," John murmurs and Sherlock does, pushing back.

John slides in and folds himself over Sherlock's back, settling his hands on either side of Sherlock's elbows.

Sherlock doesn't move.

He feels unbelievably full.

Full of John Watson.

He bites down on the sob threatening to leave his lips, the emotion and feeling rolling through him so intense.

"Sherlock," John says breathlessly against his ear. "Please talk to me."

"John," Sherlock whimpers brokenly.

"Oh, Sherlock," John presses a kiss to his temple. "Are you okay? Do you need me to stop?"

Sherlock grabs for one of John's hands next to his elbow. "No!" he whispers desperately. "No, please, don't stop."

John chuckles low in his throat. "Okay," he says. "Okay."

The pressure is slowly loosening, Sherlock's muscles giving to the intrusion. He rocks back experimentally.

John's hand flies to Sherlock's hip. " _Jesus_ ," he growls. "Fuck, Sherlock."

A surge of excitement ripples through Sherlock at John's reaction. He does it again.

John gives him a gentle slap on the rear. "Cheeky," he huffs a laugh.

Then gives a thrust of his hips.

Sherlock pitches forward with a moan, John's cock tapping forcefully against his prostate. "Ohhh my god," Sherlock mumbles.

"Mm, you like that?" John says with another thrust. "You're such a good boy, Sherlock. Such a good boy, taking it so good for me."

Sherlock bites his lip hard, goose flesh rippling across his skin. The combination of John inside him and his words against his ear is too much.

John snaps his hips again and Sherlock shoves himself back to meet it, driving John deeper.

"Naugh-ty," John groans, thrusting again.

Their rhythm isn't fast but it's hard and deep and Sherlock digs a hand into John's hair, John's mouth sucking down on his shoulder.

"J-John," Sherlock moans. His knees are spread as far as they can go. His cock slaps against his stomach with every thrust, brushing the sheets below him as it ricochets. "John I- fuck-"

Stars shimmer in his vision as John hits his prostate twice in a row. "Jo-ohn - oh- I- please, god I-"

John reaches beneath him and wraps a hand around his cock.

"Come for me," John moans, licking his ear. "Come for me while I fuck you."

Sherlock yanks John's hair and bites into the covers as he's suddenly spilling onto the sheets, screams muffled by the cloth, John stripping his cock hard, milking his orgasm from him.

He vaguely feels John's teeth scrape against his shoulder and then John's thrusts stutter to a halt.

Sherlock collapses against the bed, and John follows him down, cock still tucked inside him, both of them breathing heavily.

"Amazing," John murmurs, placing a kiss in Sherlock's hair. "You're amazing, Sherlock."

Sherlock's heart lurches to the side and he tightens his grip in John's hair as the boy goes to move. "No," Sherlock croaks into the covers. "Not yet."

John freezes seemingly unsure of what to do.

"Please," Sherlock murmurs. "Can we just… just stay like this?"

John's weight settles back against him. "Okay," he whispers, kissing Sherlock's cheek and neck. He wraps his arms under Sherlock's chest. "Okay," he says again.

Sherlock hums and snuggles against him.

And without warning, falls into a deep sleep.

 

* * *

 

"I think you should tell your father."

Sherlock looks up at John from where he's wrapping Dolly's reigns around the tree in their usual spot.

The training sessions are over but they still come out here everyday.

Just to be together.

"Tell him what?" Sherlock asks bemused. "That you're shagging me senseless every chance you get?"

John laughs and wanders toward him. "No," he says, reaching a hand up to tangle in Sherlock's hair. "I mean you should tell him you want to quit competing."

Sherlock sighs. This isn't the first time John has brought this up.

He just doesn't understand.

"You know I can't do that," Sherlock murmurs, pushing into John's touch. "As much as I wish I could."

"Sherlock, you don't even like it," John tries again. "And you hardly live here anymore. Why can't you just say that?"

"You know why," Sherlock says sternly.

He'd prefer not to come home to empty stables.

"You really think he'd just sell off the most precious things to you?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "It's not that simple and he's not that cruel, no." He sighs. "I do think he would sell them in time though. There wouldn't be a reason for Mrs. Hudson to stay around if I wasn't training for competition so he'd have to let her go. And Lestrade too, once the horses are gone. All the ranch hands – you – everyone would be gone. It's a chain reaction, John. If I quit, my horses go, along with my fam- along with everyone else."

"Well, I'd survive without this job," John teases. "I don't need to work here to continue shagging you, although it would be quite inconvenient to be elsewhere."

Sherlock swallows hard.

They hadn't talked about what would happen when the summer ended.

Truthfully, Sherlock is afraid to ask.

"John," Sherlock clears his throat. "I just…I want to thank you for all you've done for me this summer." He spoke softly, feeling so utterly foolish and vulnerable. "You've been… this has been the best summer of my life and I owe it all to you."

John smiles and rocks up on his toes, planting a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips. "We'll think of something, okay?"

Sherlock is skeptical but nods anyway.

 

* * *

 

Anderson stops showing up to practice.

Sherlock barely notices.

Mrs. Hudson barely says a word as he trots Balthazar around the course every day.

She simply beams at him from the fence.

No one says a word about the upcoming competition.

Sherlock is so caught up in John and Dolly and late afternoon runs that he barely has thought about it himself.

Truthfully, he doesn't much care.

He used to, of course.

Years ago, when his heart was still in it.

When he still loved the sport.

Now he loves John.

And Dolly.

And the freedom to do anything he likes.

 

* * *

 

John is in the stables the next morning when Sherlock is preparing for practice.

His blue eyes are glittering excitedly.

"John?" Sherlock says hesitantly.

"I have a plan," John grins.

"Uh-" Sherlock is about to ask what that plan is exactly when John grabs his hand and pulls him to the course.

Sherlock's father is leaning against the fence.

"Morning," his father says. "John said he has something important to talk to me about."

Sherlock's eyes immediately dart to John, who is still grinning and holding tightly to Sherlock's hands.

"Mr. Holmes," John says, puffing out his chest and standing a bit taller. "I would like to buy your horses."

If Sherlock had been drinking something, he would have spit it out dramatically.

Judging by the way his father's mouth drops open, he looks to be feeling very similarly.

John is still grinning. "In just a few years, I'll be a working physician. I would take out a loan and pay you in full now, then pay off the debt when I get a job."

Mr. Holmes looks dumbfounded.

"And where would you keep the horses?"

Mrs. Hudson's voice comes from around the corner as she steps out.

All three of the men turn to her.

It's a valid question.

Sherlock turns to find John's excited face has fallen. He chews at his bottom lip, eyes skittering across the ground. "Um…"

"We'd pay the property cost," Sherlock suddenly says. He doesn't know when he's gotten on board with this plan but he wants that horribly sad look on John's face to go away. "We'd pay for them to stay here and pay whatever it cost to keep them."

John looks up at him. "We?" he mouths.

Sherlock shrugs and grins.

John grins back and grips his hands tighter.

"And for Mrs. Hudson's salary," John says. "And Lestrade's. And all the ranch hands needed for upkeep."

This venture is getting rather expensive but Sherlock is giddy with possibility. They could figure it out.

"But not Anderson?" Mrs. Hudson asks with a raised, almost amused eyebrow.

"We don't need him," John says with all the confidence in the world. "Sherlock is not competing anymore."

Sherlock, John and Mrs. Hudson all jump at once as Mr. Holmes suddenly surges back to life, barking out a loud, almost hysterical laugh.

They watch as he bends over, clutching his stomach as his shoulders shake. "Oh…my god," he manages to get out. "That's what this is all about?"

No one responds.

No one seems too sure what to say.

"Jesus, Sherlock," his father is still huffing out laughs. "We've been waiting for you to quit for  _years_."

Sherlock's eyes widen. "What?"

"Oh come off it," his father says. "You don't even like it anymore."

"I-" Sherlock starts to protest, for some unknown reason, when John snorts.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" his father says. "It doesn't matter to me if you compete or not."

"Because you said if I didn't do something with my horses you would make me give them up!" Sherlock is suddenly angry, frustrated that this is so funny to his father. That Sherlock's biggest fear is some sort of joke.

His father sobers immediately. "What? When in God's name did I say that?"

"When I asked for Balthazar!"

His father frowns. "When you were eight?"

Sherlock nods vigorously. "Yes!" he barks. "You said if I didn't do anything with my pony that you would sell it!"

Mr. Holmes lips twitch. "Sherlock," he proceeds cautiously. "You were a bored, bouncing off the walls eight-year-old. Nothing held your attention. I was worried you wouldn't want to take care of an animal."

Sherlock waits. "And?"

"Well after eleven years, I'd say you've pretty much proved me wrong, wouldn't you say?"

Sherlock nods the affirmative.

"So why would I make you give them up if you stopped competing?"

"Seriously?" John whispers next to Sherlock. "You were operating on a threat your father made when you were  _eight_?"

Sherlock ignores John and narrows his eyes at his father. "What about Mrs. Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson snorts. "Sorry dear, but you can't get rid of me that easily."

"Mrs. Hudson lives here, Sherlock," his father says. "I wouldn't just throw her out."

The tightness in Sherlock's chest begins to loosen slowly. "A-And Lestrade? And all the other workers? They stay to?"

"Of course," his father says incredulously. "If the horses are here, so are they."

A happy warmth blooms in Sherlock's chest. "So…" he says cautiously. "Everything stays the same?"

Sherlock's father nods. "Yes."

"Oh," is all Sherlock can say.

It's like a giant weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He grins at his father, who grins back, winks at him and nods toward John.

"Do I have to compete next week?"

Mrs. Hudson snorts a laugh. "Well, considering I didn't sign you up, I'd say that's a firm no."

Sherlock's eyes widen.

"Clever," John murmurs, obviously impressed with Mrs. Hudson's deception.

"Oh and I fired Anderson," she says. "That man was horrible."

"How did you know?" Sherlock asks, a little awe-struck. "How did you know that this would be the summer I'd quit?"

"Ah, actually, that was my doing." Lestrade lopes out from the other side of the stables, grinning. "Well. Mine and his." He points a finger at John.

Sherlock turns sharply to find John looking about as surprised as he feels.

"Me?" John squeaked.

Lestrade shrugged. "I had a sneaky feeling you two would hit it off."

Sherlock stares for a long moment, eyes flitting around this small group of people he's known almost his whole life.

His family.

And now John is a part of it. Perfect, wonderful, filthy John.

Sherlock finds a grin spreading across his face. "I-…thank you," he says sincerely. "I… I don't know what else to say."

His father beams at him and winks. "I think John might," he says, nodding to the boy next to Sherlock.

John clears his throat. "Yeah, can I talk to you, Sherlock?" He glances at the adults still standing and watching. "In private?"

Sherlock follows as John darts behind the stables. He flashes one last grin at the people he calls his family, then turns to John.

He looks nervous.

Sherlock frowns.

"I'm really happy for you, Sherlock," John says, fidgeting slightly, staring at his feet. "I really am. And I know now since you've got everything you wanted, you may…well I dunno if you wanted this - us - just to be a summer thing but I really care about you. And I'd-"

"John," Sherlock says, dipping his fingers under John's chin and lifting his face. "You offered to buy my horses. I think we're both in this for the long haul, yeah?"

The sweetest, happiest grin spreads across John's face. "Yeah," he breathes, rocking forward and kissing Sherlock chastely. "Yeah, we are."

John's grin turns predatory. "You still want to be my naughty boy, Sherlock?"

Sherlock bites his lip and nods. "Oh god, yes."

John snorts and wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist. "Good." His eyes flicker to the three conniving adults talking quietly. "Should we tell your dad about you and Dolly?"

Sherlock's eyes widen. "Maybe we save that bomb for another day?"

John throws his head back and laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to say another giant THANK YOU for reading this series! I left you all a little love note on my tumblr page as well as some updates on this series and my other stories to please be sure to check it out at mssmithlove1.tumblr.com
> 
> Please keep the requests coming! I've created a list and will be slowly making my way through it so if you wanna see something, give me a shout! XO!


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